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THE 

PATH  O'  DREAMS 

BY 

THOMAS  S.  JONES,  JR. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Path  o'  Dreams 


The  Path  o'  Dreams 


Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 


Boston:  Richard  G.  Badger 

Chr  (Sorham 
1905 


Copyright  1904  by  THOMAS  8.  JONES,  JR. 


All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  AT 

THE  OORHAH  PRESS 

BOSTON,  U.  9.  A. 


/ 

TO 

ROBERT  TANSEY  LAUGHLIN 


904106 


Contents 

Page 

The  Piper       .         .                   .         ,  73 

Echo      .          .          .                    .          .  /^ 

At  Dusk          .....  75 

To 16 

Tears     .         .                   .         .         .  77 

Reverie            .          .          .         .          .  18 

The  Gloaming  Hour        .'.         .  19 

Soul-Slumber  .....  20 

Harvest           .          ....  21 
Constancy        .          .          .          .          .22 

My  Silent  Years  23 

Trdumerei       .          ....  24. 

Indian  Summer        ....  25 


Page 

Once      ......  26 

The  Empty  Cup      ....  27 

A  Forest  Dream      .         ...  28 

A  Song  at  Sunset    .         .         .  29 

Quatrain         .         .         .                   .  31 

Life's  Paradox        ....  32 

Forgotten        .          .          .          .          .  33 

Drifts    .  34 
Withal  .         .                  *         .         -35 

Noel      **....  36 

Solitude       .   .         .         .         .         .  57 

Illusion            i         *         .         .         .  38 

Legende          *          .          .          .          .  39 

Quatrain         .         .         .         »  ^0 

Berceuse          *         «         .         .         .  1 


Daphne  .          .          .          .          .  42 

Two  Chords  .         ....  43 

October  Night  44 
L'Envoi          ..... 


THE  PATH  o'  DREAMS 


The  Piper 

We  danced  and  sang  through  the  sylvan  glade 
As  the  piper  played,  as  the  piper  played 

With  never  a  thought  of  the  joy  he  made ; 
For  his  squeaking  pipe  was  quaintly  small 
And  the  rasping  notes  would  break  and  fall. 

We  thought  it  quite  poor  if  we  thought  at  all 
As  the  piper  played. 

The  shadows  were  long  in  the  sylvan  glade 

As  the  price  we  paid,  as  the  price  we  paid. 
We  had  little  to  give,  else  he  might  have 
stayed ; 

But  others  must  dance  while  he  must  play. 

Yet  it  seemed  so  strange  he  went  away, 
For  we  didn't  then  know  we  had  lived  our  day 

And  the  price  was  paid. 


Echo 

And  Spring  withal  is  just  across  the  way, — 
Though  harsh  and  shrill  the  shifts  of  March 

come  blowing, 

The  softened  pipes  of  dreamy-sodden  May 
Sound  once  again  like  forest  streams  a-flow- 

ing. 

O  Songs  of  Tester-Spring  that  are  no  more, 

0  Hours  of  Buried  Youth,  so  sweet  of  yore, 
Down  'neath  your  grassy  graves  in  endless 

sleep 

1  wonder  if  you  wake,  and  hear,  —  and  weep. 


At  Dusk 

A  line  of  gold,  a  shade  of  withered  rose 
Amid  the  gray,  —  oh,  just  a  little  while 
Before  the  night;  as  though  day  could  not 

close 
Its  eyes  in  sleep  without  one  last  sweet  smile. 


To  .... 

Closed  in  a  Vase  of  Gold,  there  lie 
Flowers  of  Lavender;  dead  and  cold 
And  void  of  life  as  are  the  walls  that  hold 
Their  dust.     Yet  in  a  silent  mystery 
They    breathe    a    perfume    throughout    all 

eternity, 

And  ever  in  a  haunting  fragrance  bless 
A  lonely  heart  with  tenderness. 

Ashes  of  Lavender!     And  a  breath 
Can  hold  forever  sweet  a  Vase  of  Life, 
And  smother  even  Death  in  Love-in-Death. 


16 


Tears 

So  long  ago  it  was,  so  long  ago,  — 
And  I  forgot  'twas  but  a  charge,  for,  oh ! 
It  was  so  sweet  to  keep,  to  know. 

Only  forgive  —  you  see  love  needs  must  grow 
When  heav'n  is  near  each  hour  —  and  it  is  so, 
So  hard  just  then  to  let  it  go. 


Reverie 

The  night  has  lost  her  gage  within  the  pool 

And  wide-eyed  she, 
As  pass  the  hours  beside  the  waters  cool, 

Stalks  wistfully. 

Blue  shadows  of  gray  trees  mid  golden  mist, 

Tower  after  tower, 
Are  caught  the  while  in  liquid  amethyst 

With  one  moon  flower. 

But  she  wots  not  the  shadow  trees  afloat 

Gray  gold  between, 
Only  she  notes  her  flower  —  a  little  boat 

Upon  the  sheen. 

And  when  the  yellow  moon  grown  pale  with 
age 

Sinks  in  the  gray, 

She  sees  —  oh,  strange  I  —  deep  in  the  pool 
her  gage 

Drowned  for  aye. 


18 


Alone  —  a  wanderer  throughout  the  streets 

of  day, 

One  who  but  wished  to  roam 
Not  knowing  then;  ah,  now,  only  to  ask,  to 

pray 
For  you  to  take  me  home. 


Soul-Slumber 

Where  there  is  the  red  of  roses, 
Where  the  heather  blowing  sighs, 
She  in  lonely  sleep  reposes 
With  the  mould-dust  in  her  eyes : 
And  she  never  knows  the  flowers 
Bloom  above  her  in  their  bowers, 
And  she  never  knows  the  hours 
Drag  so  slowly  where  she  lies. 

Oh,  I  would  that  I  were  lying 
Where  the  wild  June-rose  hedge  blows, 
Fading  as  the  sun  is  dying, 
As  the  day  draws  to  its  close ; 
For  my  soul  is  gone  forever, 
Dead  with  her  to  answer  never, 
And  when  soul  and  body  sever 
There  is  death  in  life,  God  knows. 


20 


Harvest 

Yellow  leaves  and  autumn  wind, 

For  summer  days  have  flown, 

And  now  there  is  a  harvesting 

Of  that  which  once  was  sown. 

Here  men  together  reap  their  grain, 

Here  men  reap  theirs  alone; 

And  many  there  are  who  reap  the  grain 

And  bind  the  golden  sheaves, 

And  many  there  are  whose  arms  are  full 

Of  dead  and  yellow  leaves. 


21 


Constancy 

Still  deep  in  the  lane  do  the  red  roses  blow 

And  cover  quite  tenderly 
Their  names  that  were  graven  long  ages  ago 

On  the  old,  old  trysting  tree. 

And  though  they  are  dead  with  their  vows  all 
undone, 

False  to  troth  and  fealty, 
And  though  each  frail  heart  'neath  the  far 
colder  stone 

Now  crumbled  to  dust  may  be ; 

Still  deep  in  the  lane  do  the  red  roses  blow 

And  cover  quite  tenderly 
Their  names  that  were  graven  long  ages  ago 

On  the  old,  old  trysting  tree. 


My  Silent  Years 

Like  souls  they  softly  slip  away; 

The  wistful  twilight  wind 
Is  not  less  still  nor  sad  than  they 

That  leave  but  me  behind, — 
For  all  they  take  and  I  who  stay 

Again  may  never  find. 

Good-bye,  good-bye,  my  silent  years; 

Some  day  when  I  am  dead. 
Though  now  I  stand  so  mute  with  tears, 

Some  day  I  trust  instead 
To  find  that  bourne  where  reappears 

Each  hour  remembered,  — 
To  find  again  my  silent  years 

Some  day  when  I  am  dead. 


Traumerei 

There  is  a  place  of  dreams,  Dear,  a  place  of 

dreams 

Where  you  and  I,  my  head  upon  your  breast, 
Ride  toward  the  South.     Far  in  the  yellow 

West 
There  is  a  fading  light,  while  o'er  the  moonlit 

sky 

The  clouds  fly  from  the  wind ;  and  you  and  I 
Just  dream  together,  dreaming  thus  to  rest 
Forever  and  a  day  in  that  far  place  of  dreams. 


Indian  Summer 

Soft  through  the  purple  of  the  western  hills, 

Through  veils  of  haze, 

Wherefrom  this  peace,  —  this  rest  which  in 
me  thrills,  — 

Spirit  of  Autumn  Days? 

Where    are    the    questionings    of    summer 

spent,  — 

Or  are  they  with  my  years,  lost  memories, 
Spirit  of  Sweet  Content? 

Enough  to  lie  and  listen  as  the  day  grows  old 

To  melodies 
From  that  near  choir  of  voices  manifold, — 

Spirits  of  Gathered  Leaves. 


Once 

Ah,  who  could  know 

That  you  and  I  were  here 

In  days  so  long  ago, 

And  plighted  troth?     Why,  dear, 

'Twere  sweeter,  kinder,  better  not  to  know. 


26 


The  Empty  Cup 

To  him  she  gave  a  goblet  red  with  wine, 
While  he  but  drank  and  then  forgot  in  fine. 
Saw  he  how  frail  the  glass  was  wrought,  how 

red 

The  fire  glowed  in  the  crystal  bowl?  Ah,  no, 
Enough  for  him  the  draught  remembered,  — 
The  cup  was  empty,  let  it  go. 

Oh,  far  too  exquisite  a  glass  for  this, 
Thus  cast  aside  save  with  a  quaffing  kiss. 
Yet,  after  all,  what  matter?     Best  or  worst 
It  serves  the  same  to  hold  the  wine,  and  so 
'Twill  just  as  well  allay  a  craven's  thirst,  — 
The  cup  is  empty,  let  it  go. 


27 


A  Forest  Dream 

To  sleep  again  beneath  the  shadowed  pines, 
Hearing  afar  and  sad  the  night-wind  softly 

sighing 

Amid  the  boughs,  —  breathing  the  dewy  air 
Wafted  so  cool  upon  my  brow  where  I  am 

lying 

At  rest,  drunk  with  the  perfume  of  your  hair. 
Ah,  Spirit  of  the  Pines,  I  would  not  care 
Again  to  wake,  if  in  your  arms  I  might  be 

dying ! 


28 


A  Song  at  Sunset 

Clouds  of  saffron,  crimson,  golden, 
Thrilling  veils  of  gossamer; 
In  the  shafts  of  dusk  beholden 
Vanished  elfin  lands  recur. 

And  between  an  arras  rending, 
Turquoise-wrought  infinitudes 
Charm  the  mass  of  gorgeous  blending 
With  soft  minor  interludes. 

Oh,  the  wonder  transformation!  — 
Roses  gold  from  roses  gray 
In  an  aurate  scintillation 
From  the  leaden  clouds  of  day. 

Fabric  of  the  sun's  fair  weaving, 
Made  of  stuff  too  frail  to  hold; 
Yet  that  moment  of  deceiving 
Bursts  with  rapture  manifold. 

Promised  isles  lost  in  the  gloaming, 
Floating  on  effulgent  fire; 
Whither  we  would  rest  from  roaming,- 
Sunset  Land  of  Heart's  Desire. 


29 


So  once  seen  those  lights  far  burning, 
From  the  Grail  within  the  Garde, 
Guide  us  upward —  ever  yearning  — 
Changed  from  savage  into  bard. 

Clouds  of  saffron,  crimson,  golden, 
Thrilling  veils  of  gossamer; 
In  the  shafts  of  dusk  beholden 
Vanished  elfin  lands  recur. 


Quatrain 


Into  this  Garden  wide,  apart  and  lone 

You  came,  —  nor  cast  aside  the  tangled  weed. 

Though  that  was  long  ago,  still  from  one. 

seed 
Rue  and  Rosemary  ever  since  have  grown. 


Life's  Paradox 

Wreaths  from  the  censer's  brazen  grate 

Wandering  listlessly 
Against  that  calm  inviolate, 

Wherefore  so  trouble  ye? 

Or,  do  ye  seek  that  mystery 

Because,  as  I,  ye  must? 
Knowing  what  was  and  is  to  be 

Are  silence,  ashes,  dust. 


Forgotten 

Out  far  away  in  the  distant  street 
I  hear  the  echo  of  passing  feet  — 
Your  footsteps,  Sweet. 

It  seems  so  strange,  yes,  it  seems  so  queer 
That  you  could  wander  away  from  here, 
Without  me,  Dear. 


33 


Drifts 

Did  you  ever  watch  the  snow  on  a  hill 

Blowing  and  blowing  yet  never  still, 

Though  the  wind  is  low 

And  the  wastes  below 

Rest  like  the  dead  in  their  icy  chill  ?  — 

But  the  snow  on  the  hill 

Is  never  still. 

And  at  night  white  wraiths  in  the  ghastly 

gleam, 

Forbidden  to  sleep,  lost  lives  redeem; 
While  the  wind  shrieks  shrill 
Round  the  frozen  hill 

As  they  cry  and  call  in  a  maddening  scream, — 
For  the  wraiths  on  the  hill 
Are  never  still. 


34 


Withal 

What  if  the  miles  stretch  out  and  bar 

That  you  and  I  should  meet?  why,  even  still 

You  are  beneath  this  very  moon  and  star 

Which  I  am  watching  from  my  lonely  hill, 

And  I  can  say  low  with  a  happy  thrill, 

You  are  not  far,  dear  heart,  you  are  not  far. 


35 


Noel 

Sometimes  the  world  seems  harsher  when  the 
skies  are  gray, 

And  more  forlorn;  — 

Yet  not  a  flower  was  blooming  on  the  wintry 
day 

Ere  Christ  was  born. 

So  ofttimes  the  day  sinks  to  its  gloomy  end, 

Where  all  seems  done, 

The  twilight  colors  paint  themselves  and  glow 
and  blend 

After  the  sun. 


Solitude 

Alone  I  weave  a  fancy  in  the  glow, 

While  all  the  world  outside  is  white  with 

snow 

And  cheerless.     But  to  me, 
Musing  before  this  fire  and  drowsily 
Supposing  that  your  head  rests  on  my  knee, — 
Seeing  the   while  your  great   eyes   dim-des 
cried,  — 

Heaven  could  not  be  fairer  than  that  snowy 
world  outside. 


37 


Illusion 

There  are  so  many  flow'rs,  so  many  songs, 
So  many  fair  things  in  this  world  of  ours; 
While  I  pretend  that  one  to  me  belongs, 
One  song,  one  flower,  from  all  these  songs 
and  flowers. 

Although  it's  blooming  for  the  world  I  know, 
Although  it  sings  to  you  as  tenderly, 
I  think  it  mine  —  what  if  it  isn't  so?  — 
And  that  those  words  are  really  meant  for 
me. 


Legende 

Across  the  seas, 

Beyond  the  hill, 

Within  a  grove,  there  lies 

Upon  the  sward 

An  elfin  thing 

With  madness  in  her  eyes,  — 

For  she  is  mad  with  joy  because 

The  world  seems  Paradise. 

And  in  the  glades 
Where  steal  the  streams 
Throughout  the  sunny  day, 
She  wanders  free 
In  fantasy 

Along  the  flowery  way, 
And  she  is  never  sad,  because 
Life  is  a  rondelay. 

Yet  just  because 

She  is  so  pure, 

And  in  her  soul  believes, 

'Twere  better  not 

To  cross  the  hill 

Or  sail  the  sullen  seas. 


39 


Quatrain 


Oh,   the  waste   of  vain   doubt   and   regret 
ting  !  — 

Shall  I  seek  for  the  thought  that  deceives, 
When  I  find  all  —  the  old  world  forgetting  — 
In  the  whispers  of  silvery  leaves? 


40 


Berceuse 

Across  the  blue  the  fleecy  clouds  waft  by, 
Too  fair  of  beauty  thus  so  quickly  sped,  — 
You  do  not  see,  for  on  my  heart  you  lie, 
You  do  not  see,  but  know,  for  you  are  dead ! 

Sweet,  sweet  the  strain  throughout  the  dark 
ened  air, 

So  faint,  so  far  from  out  the  passing  day; 
These  dying  roses  crown  your  tawny  hair, 
This  fading  breeze  sings  our  last  roundelay. 

It  comes  from  where  the  snowy  clouds  are 

gone, — 

So  still  I  listen  to  its  ladened  theme, 
For,  though  I  lose  you  at  the  morrow's  dawn, 
I  still  may  find  our  garden  of  a  dream. 

Our  garden  where  no  cross-roads  meet  and 

part, 

Where  roses  bloom  for  aye,  not  withered, — 
You'll  lead  me  through  the  paths  of  sleep, 

dear  heart, 
There  shall  I  find  those  clouds  where  you  are 

dead. 


Daphne 

Do  you  not  hear  her  song 
When  rosy  showers  fall 
And  forest  whispers  call 
Along? 

Do  you  not  hear  her  feet 
Now  faint  among  the  leaves,  — 
Or  is  't  the  wind  that  grieves 
So  sweet? 

Do  you  her  face  not  see 
Mid  birches  of  a  glade 
Where  sunbeams  pass  —  half  maid, 
Half  tree? 


42 


Two  Chords 

Two  ladened  chords  oft  sound  within  the 

soul: 
One  fraught  with  joy,  a  great  pure  major 

theme ; 
The   other,    fragile   as   a   half   remembered 

dream, 

Throbs  softly  in  a  strain  of  minor  dole. 
And  yet  of  these,  the  sweeter  far  to  me 
Is  that  grave  echo  of  earth's  tragedy. 


43 


October  Night 


The  boughs  weave  a  web  where  the  moon 

looks  through 
And  the  casement  sways  'gainst  the  chilly 

moon,  — 

Oh,  strange  that  this  sky  now  so  cold  and  blue 
Once  was  soft  with  the  clouds  of  a  sunny 
June! 


44 


L'Envoi 

Through  the  mesh  of  tangled  rushes 

In  the  stream, 
Glints  of  gold  glow  ruddy  blushes 

Gleam  for  gleam, 
And  the  Song  of  Sundown  hushes 

To  a  dream. 

As  the  breeze  is  faintly  falling 

Cool  and  low, 
As  the  whip-poor-wills  are  calling 

To  and  fro, 
Soft  it  throbs  with  pain  so  palling 

In  the  glow. 

Silent  sobbing  song  of  ending; 

You  and  I 
Know  the  night  will  soon  be  bending 

O'er  the  sky,  — 
Know  the  silent  words  past  mending 

Are  "good-bye." 


45 


Good-night; 

And  may  your  barque  of  dreams  in  twilight 

Float  beneath  a  wooded  hill 

Upon  a  lake  of  gold,  as  still 

As  death.     Good-night. 


47 


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